


From The Mixed-Up Files of Dr. Bryce S. DeWitt

by Aloysia_Virgata



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s11e04 The Lost Art Of Forehead Sweat, F/M, Post-Jello
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 19:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13507815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloysia_Virgata/pseuds/Aloysia_Virgata
Summary: It's not parallel universes! (It's parallel universes.)





	From The Mixed-Up Files of Dr. Bryce S. DeWitt

Scully peruses her sticky, laminated menu, fidgety with hunger. They’re the same old diner offerings she knows by heart; Greek omelets and open faced turkey sandwiches and microwaved spanakopita with a side of anemic tomatoes. The “Dieter’s Delite” is tuna salad on a bed of romaine with canned peaches glistening off to the side.

The waitress saunters over, chewing a coffee stirrer, and asks what they’d like. Mulder snatches Scully’s menu from her hands and she squeaks indignantly.

“Two milkshakes, one chocolate and one cherry. Two cheeseburgers with the works, both medium, extra pickles on one, no mayo on the other. curly fries, a Cobb salad with the dressing on the side. And, uh, mozzarella sticks with extra marinara.” He beams at the waitress and passes their menus to her.

Scully stares. “Mulder, that is a tremend-”

“Diet Coke for the lady,” he adds. “And a pot of coffee.”

The waitress leaves before he can complicate things further.

“Hey, if we’re not gonna splurge, we could have stayed home.”

Scully opens the paper fastener around her utensils. “Are we going to build up a layer of brown fat and hibernate this winter, Mulder?”

He grins. “Not such a bad idea, is it? Seal off the house and spend the cold months in bed.”

“It’s less fun if we’re unconscious.”

“We could set periodic alarms.” He blows a straw wrapper, hitting her in the nose.

She scowls. “Mulder, what do you make of this whole thing with Reggie? Really, I mean? Is it possible that he has actually listened to all of our conversations over the years? It seems the only plausible explanation, but it’s almost the most disturbing.”

“You afraid he’s got downloads of your late night calls to 1-900-SCIENCE, where for $1.99 per minute a man with a sexy baritone reads you the latest edition of JAMA?”

“Better than 1-900-VALIDATE, where for $1.99 a minute some total bimbo tells you that oooohhh, yes, it _was_ a big mean sea monster that ate all those tourists.” She says this in a Marilyn Monroe voice, and finishes with a breathy giggle.

Mulder blinks. “I would happily pay $1.99 a minute to hear you talk like that.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m an acquired taste. Like lutefisk. Or durian.”

The waitress returns with the coffee pot, handing them each a thick ceramic mug. She promises to return with the food shortly.

Scully watches her retreat to the kitchen, thoughtful. “It does make you think though, Mulder. About all the different ways life could have gone. I mean, my parents didn’t have a lot of money. I waited tables in college and there were times I was so exhausted I didn’t think I’d make it. I could have dropped out of my physics program and ended up as a waitress in one of those nowhere diners in Arizona or something, serving club sandwiches to a lonely G-man.”

Mulder reaches across the table, taking her hands in his. They are cool and dry. “Then we could have started talking about universal wavefunctions and relative state formulation. I would have had your little polyester uniform on my hotel floor by the time the coffee cooled.”

She laughs, squeezes his fingers. “It’s not parallel universes, Mulder.”

***

Reggie passes Scully a wad of napkins, her fingers coated with barbeque sauce. “We have to get her off this rib kick, Foxy,” he says. “She looks feral.”

Scully glares, but accepts the napkins. “Oh, well, I’m so glad you have an opinion on what I eat. It really figures into my decisions.” She rips a chunk of meat from the bone with a defiant expression.

“Aw, Sculls, I'm just teasing. But it _is_ surprising to see a woman order something other than a salad and a Diet Coke these days.” Reggie reaches for one of her ribs and gets his hand slapped for his trouble.

Scully wipes her mouth. “Are you operating under the assumption that I, in any way, care what you think?”

Reggie’s face clouds. “I was kidding, jeez, you on the rag, Sculls?”

She seriously considers decking him.

Mulder, ever the peacemaker, clears his throat. “I’ve put a few more calls in about this Gerd Thomas guy. I want to go back and talk to him again.”

The waitress comes by to refill their coffee and ask if they need anything else.

“Do you have a tampon?” Scully asks her, looking Reggie in the eye. “My endometrial lining is sloughing off in a flow of blood. From my vagina. Which I, a woman, have.”

Reggie blanches.

“Sure thing, hon,” the waitress says, and passes one over from her apron pocket.

Scully’s aim is true, and the tampon hits Reggie in the nose.

***

Her thighs feel clammy on the red vinyl bench, and she watches drops of condensation as they slide down her glass of Diet Coke.

“It’s over,” Daniel says, beaming at her like he’s just paid off her med school loans. “I told her everything, and we’re going to file the paperwork on Monday.”

“Oh, Daniel,” she breathes, poking at her Cobb salad, unsure what to say.

He reaches down to his pocket with his right hand, then returns it to the dented formica table with a velvet box. He opens it, and the light coming in through the smudged windows bounces of the stone in a thousand miniscule rainbows.

Dana chews her lower lip, eyes wide. This is what she wants, isn’t it? She wants a rich doctor to go with her MD, wants charity galas and deference and a BMW in the suburbs. She wants a diamond the size of a maraschino cherry and a Silver Cross pram for the eventual babies.

Daniel reaches across the table to take her hands in his. She notices that his wedding ring is still on, the thick band scuffed and scratched. What will he do with it now? Does he plan to recycle it for her, just let it transition with no demarcation?

“Dana?” he says, his eyes shining.

The ring is very bright and she stares at it, thinking of its weight on her finger. She thinks it will look very well at Thanksgiving this year. She thinks it will tear her latex gloves.

She doesn’t have any idea how to say no, so she says yes.

***

Her tea and the square of Cool Whip-topped lime Jello are off to the side, replaced by a sprawl of paperwork and gruesome 5x7 photographs. Dana scans her reports, highlighter poised as she reads her own dense writing.

She’s enough of a fixture here that no one comments on her time at the table, at her disturbing pictures or cell phone calls. She tips well, and that’s good enough.

The tinkle of the bell at the door makes her look up, and she sees the man again for the third time this week. He’s tall and handsome, with good suits and loud ties. He looks like a K Street lawyer or a GS-13, his haircut too expensive for the average pencil-pusher. He catches her eye and smiles.

Dana nods in reply.

Next to him is a tall brunette, elegantly dressed and coiffed. She looks around, her nose wrinkled.

“Fox,” she murmurs, in a protesting tone. “This is your great breakfast spot?”

“Oh ye of little faith,” the man (Fox?) chides, and guides her to a booth.

Dana hears him order sweet potato pie and “an egg white Greek omelet for the lady.”

She shakes her head, returns to the reliable dead.

***

Doggett pulls her chair out, then pushes it in as she settles. Scully feels tremendous and ungainly these days, unsure of her own physical boundaries. Her belly is purpled with bruises from door frames and filing cabinets.

“You okay?” he asks, taking his seat across from her. “Saw you wince a little there.”

“Knowing the medical facts of pregnancy haven’t quite prepared me for the physical realities of it,” she admits, rueful.

Doggett smiles in sympathy. “Yeah, I remember poor Barbara trying to tie her sneakers there in the end. She refused to give up.”

Scully looks at the menu, traces a picture of a cinnamon bun with her forefinger. “Still hard to believe it’s real,” she murmurs softly.

John presses his lips into a thin line, frowning. “I wish I had some great wisdom to impart, Agent Scully,” he says. “Something to make this easier on you.”

She looks at him fondly, his military hair and his military bearing, the sweet formality of his Agent Scully. “It’s okay,” she says. “The company will do.”

He nods. “So a week left, huh? And you’re still dragging around to greasy spoons? You should be home with your feet up at this point.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do at home with my feet up,” she confesses. Though she does know. She’d think, which is dangerous. She’d think about the unfairness of a second chance for Billy Miles while Mulder, against her dearest hopes, continued to decompose in North Carolina.

The exhumation had left her retching until there was blood, with Skinner and Doggett half-carrying her to the car.

Best not to think. Best to work.

“Well, if we’re out an about when Junior makes his appearance, you should know I’ve delivered a couple babies over the years,” he assures her.

Scully smiles. “Me too,” she says.

“Yeah, but not from the other end.”

She grins at this. “Fair point.”

Their coffee comes, with assurance that the burgers are soon to follow.

“John,” Scully begins, serious.

He looks up from the bowl of creamers. “I’m not about to be put to the test on my claim, am I?

“Oh, no. No. I just…I wanted to thank you for everything. Your support during this whole ordeal, the funeral, the….” she trails off. She still can’t talk about seeing Mulder - or what was left of him - in the coffin that second time.

“Partners,” he says simply.

She reaches out to take his hand. “Partners.”

***

“He’s DISGUSTING,” Emily whines, holding her phone away from William. “Stop it, you little weirdo!”

William blows another straw paper at her through the gap in his teeth.

“William!” Scully hisses, her eyes narrow.

He slouches down in the booth, and kicks Emily under the table.

“MOM!”

“Emily, put the phone away at the table,” Mulder says, relieving William of a handful of straws.

Emily rolls her eyes, but shoves it in the pocket of her hoodie. “This whole family is a mess,” she complains.

“Not as messy as your room,” William says. “Not as messy as your love life.”

“Not as messy as your face,” Emily says, handing him a napkin. “Look at you, Will. What even _is_ that all over you?”

William inspects a brown stain on his Knicks shirt. “Pudding,” he declares. “Dad and I made some before we met you guys.”

“Ew.”

Mulder dips the napkins in water and scrubs at his son’s face. “It was pretty good, though. We saved you some. So any luck with the homecoming dress, ladies?”

Emily sighs dramatically. “Mom hated everything and has boring taste. Like, there are colors other than black and charcoal, _Scully_.”

Scully smoothes her hand over Emily’s blonde head, which sits several inches higher than her own. “It was rough going but, finally, we prevailed.”

Mulder grins. “She still doesn’t know what to do with a girly-girl, Em. She had very firm ideas about primary colored blocks and sturdy overalls, but you seem to have been born for sparkly eyeshadow and princess gowns.”

Emily pats her mother’s cheek. “It’s good for her. Builds character. At least you were always dressed to impress at my tea parties, Daddy-o.”

“At least you’re a math nerd,” Scully observes, signaling for more coffee. “We’ll always have calculus.”

“I like math,” William pipes up. “We can have calculus too.”

Scully ruffles his hair.

The waitress saunters over, chewing a coffee stirrer, and asks what they’d like. Mulder snatches Scully’s menu from her hands and she squeaks indignantly.

“Four milkshakes, two chocolate and two cherry. Four cheeseburgers with the works, medium, extra pickles on one, no mayo on the another. Two curly fries, a Cobb salad with the dressing on the side. And, uh, mozzarella sticks with extra marinara.” He beams at the waitress and passes their menus to her.

Scully stares. “Mulder, that is a tremend-”

“Diet Coke for the lady,” he adds.

“Iced tea,” Scully says suddenly. “And a sweet potato pie.”

“Holy crap,” Emily says, impressed.

“Holy crap,” William repeats.

Their mother smiles, leans against their father’s shoulder. “Hey, if we’re not gonna splurge, we could have stayed home.”


End file.
